Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript (10 page)

“Yep.” Dennis puffed at his smoke.

“Tell me about it.”

Chapter Nine

My glamorous-sounding job as Sunnye Hardcastle’s escort came down to finding a secure closet for her ankle-length leather coat, locating her conference badge, bringing her a glass of champagne and a plateful of tiny smoked-salmon sandwiches, and making introductions.

“So, you’re supposed to be my bodyguard?” Sunnye said, when I met her in the library.

“Escort. From what I’ve heard, you should have no need of a bodyguard.” I looked closely, but couldn’t see anywhere Sunnye could possibly be packing heat beneath her shimmering grey silk sheath. Must be in the soft leather shoulder bag.

The novelist gave me a Cheshire-Cat grin. Then she stuck on her conference badge, took a hefty slug of wine, slipped Trouble a sandwich, and flashed an automatic smile at the first admirer to approach her.

The reception was being held in the library’s large foyer, the area temporarily closed to students and other patrons by discreet green plush-covered chains on upright brass poles. And permanently closed to dogs, as a vigilant security guard explained to Sunnye. “I’m a public figure with a need for protection from deranged fans,” she informed him. “He’s a trained guard dog—goes with me everywhere.” My eyes widened as I watched a crisp fifty-dollar bill change hands, and Trouble entered the library without further challenge.

Long tables laden with succulent tidbits had replaced the foyer’s book and manuscript display cases. A bar anchored the far end of the room. Among the attendees, only Rachel Thompson and I—and one pseudo-scholar, undercover—knew that sometime in the early morning hours of the previous day a locked and alarmed library display case had somehow—impossibly—been opened, and an invaluable manuscript had been stolen.

***

“What do you know about bibliomania?” Dennis had asked me in my office earlier that day.

“Bibliomania?” I broke the word down into its constituent parts. Latin derivation.
Biblio. Mania.
“You mean bibliophiles? People who are crazy about books? I think you’d have to put me into that category.”

“But
you’re
sane—at least I assume so.” He gave me an Irish grin. “What I’m talking about is something more like
bibliokleptomania
. People who are so obsessed with books that they’ll go to any lengths to possess them.
Biblioklepts
, I think they’d be called.”

“So,” I mused, “you
are
working on the library thefts. I thought so. Avery told me about them, you know. He said a half million dollars….”

Dennis rolled the fat cigar in his fingers. “Karen, when you and I were kids back in Lowell living on beans and potatoes and Merrimack River fish,” he flashed his feline smile, “did you think we’d ever be sitting in a room like this one talking about a
half million dollars
?”

I shrugged. “It’s still someone else’s half million. Why you, Denny? How’d you get involved in this?”

“I did some work for UMass Lowell. Word got around. I’m…damn good.”

“But…rare books? You know about them?”

“I’m a fast learner.” He waggled his cigar like Groucho Marx. “Anyhow, Karen, let me bring you up to date. Last night the s.o.b. who’s been heisting the books got into the library again. Took something big-time—a manuscript worth maybe $100,000—from a locked display case in the foyer.”

“You’re kidding!” I visualized the contents of the cases. “Oh, no! Not
The Maltese Falcon!
”

“Yeah, that’s it. A scrawled-over stack of old pages. An annotated typescript, Mitchell called it. A hundred grand! Tell me, Karen, why the hell would that thing bring such big bucks?”

I pondered for a moment. “The
Falcon
’s…seminal, I guess you’d say—an apt term, if not p. c. at the moment. It established a transformative myth in the American imagination, the loner private eye—an incorruptible man in a crooked universe. An icon of American crime novels, films, even TV police dramas. And the manuscript? I saw it there, in that case. It had Hammett’s revisions all over it, in his own hand. Jeez…only $100,000? I’m surprised. The thing must be priceless.”

“Priceless, huh? Nothing’s priceless.” Dennis brooded for a long moment. Then he stubbed his cigar out in an empty coffee mug and dumped it in the trash. I knew the sweet brown aroma would linger in the air for days. “Well, back to the theft: No signs of forced entry to the building. Even weirder, the showcase was still locked—like the manuscript had just been vaporized right through the glass. No signs of forced entry: no broken glass, dents, scratches. Just
poof!
Gone.”

“Someone must have had a key….”

Dennis shrugged. “If they did, it’s an inside job, but I’m not convinced…” He let it trail off, and fell silent again.

“Dennis?”

He shook his head, as if to clear his thinking. “So, anyhow, Mitchell’s been talking to me for almost a month about an investigation—since before I met you at the reunion.” Another ginger-cat grin. “You could have knocked me over with a first edition of a Dick Tracy comic when you told me you taught at Enfield.”

I thought back. “You did look flabbergasted.”

He nodded. “Mitchell was…” Dennis waffled his hand back and forth to indicate Avery’s indecision. “But this morning, when they found that manuscript missing, he called, told me to get my ass over here right away.”

“He didn’t say ‘ass.’” I knew Avery. He was anything but crude.

“He might as well have. He wanted me here pronto. Karen, I’m building a top-notch reputation as an investigator, and this is a big case for me. I need your help. And, the first thing I need is for you not to know me.”

***

Now, at the reception, I abandoned Sunnye to her fans and wandered over to a tray of fat red strawberries imported, no doubt at hideous expense, from God-knows-which despot-ridden equatorial nation. “Lose the glasses,” I muttered to the ginger-haired conferee dipping a berry into a pot of melted chocolate. “Horn-rims went out with Professor Henry Higgins.” The strawberry-eater was six feet tall and lithe like a tiger. The white scar stretching from his eye to his hairline was only partially obscured by the clunky glasses. His name tag read
Prof. Mark Slade, Mount Helen College
. “And,” I added, “do you see a single other person here under the age of seventy wearing tweed? With suede elbow patches, no less?”

“So nice to meet you, Professor Pelletier,” Professor Slade said. “I’ve read all your work, of course. And with great admiration. Although I must say I do believe you’ve overestimated the role of class binaries in the cultural construction of a robust national identity.”

“Slade’s” critique was lifted verbatim from a hostile
American Literary History
review of my scholarly book. “You really do your homework, don’t you?” I simpered at Dennis, moved on to the seafood bar, and nabbed a plateful of shrimp.

Paul Henshaw, an Enfield rare-book dealer, had backed Sunnye into a paneled alcove. Paul was in his sixties, attractive and grey-haired, and Sunnye seemed to be enjoying the encounter. Trouble was asleep at her feet. In spite of the neat ponytail, Paul was a tough guy, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, and virile, with a pushed-in nose that at one time had been broken, then poorly set. His shop, Henshaw’s Rare and Antiquarian Books, was an Enfield institution. I knew his tales of fabulous book discoveries and heartbreaking misses could be engrossing, but right now he was monopolizing the novelist. I gave him a cordial brush-off, found a small table upon which Sunnye could sign books, brought her a chair, and bullied people into an orderly line. In spite of the purported academic indifference to the commercialized products of popular culture, a number of attendees carried luridly colored copies of
Tough Times
.

My post at Sunnye’s side gave me a prime view of the crowd. In the crush around the writer I spotted familiar faces. Claudia Nestor flitted from person to person, greeting newcomers with a high shrill laugh, refilling her wine glass, scowling at the selection of hors d’oeuvres. Nellie Applegate, in a too-long grey dress made from some nubby fabric manufactured exclusively to be sold in second-hand shops, sipped at something colorless and gazed vaguely around the room. Bob Tooey, the little potato-faced researcher from Special Collections, was all dressed up now in a baggy blue suit, waiting in line for Sunnye to sign a bright new copy of
Tough Times
.

Behind Tooey, Rachel Thompson drank red wine in big gulps. She appeared pale and stressed, her dark eyes nervous, her thin lips tight. And no wonder. She had primary responsibility for the library’s collection of rare books and manuscripts. The loss of
The Maltese Falcon
manuscript, not to mention all the stolen books, did not place her in a favorable light. To say the least. Her job might even be at risk. And where, after all these thefts from the Enfield holdings, would Rachel find a new job? The academic world is small and news travels fast. Who would hire a librarian who couldn’t keep the books on her shelves?

Rachel introduced herself to Sunnye and handed the novelist two copies of
Tough Times
. One for herself, I assumed, and one for the library. I remembered the signed first edition of
Rough Cut
I’d seen in the display case. Had that been stolen along with the
Falcon
manuscript?

Dennis, in the guise of Professor Slade, sidled up to me. “Karen, who’s that?” He tilted his wineglass in the direction of a half-open door sequestered in the foyer’s paneling. Peggy Briggs stood in the shadow of the door, a bulky manila envelope hugged to her chest. It was an internal mail envelope, the kind with the twist closure and the little viewing holes.

“That’s Peggy Briggs, one of my students. Why?”

He didn’t answer my question. “Where does that door go?”

“God knows. This old building is riddled with odd doors. It can be like a bad dream. Strange winding corridors. Staircases that lead to walled-off hallways. I’ve gotten hopelessly lost more than once. But that particular door? To tell the truth, I never even noticed it before.”

“Looks like it was designed as a concealed entry.” Dennis took a step in Peggy’s direction. “Wonder what she’s got there?”

“Don’t!” I grabbed his sleeve. My student was under enough pressure already.

He pulled away, then turned to me, his expression suddenly so menacing I shivered. “I’m here on an investigation, Karen. Don’t get in my way.”

I was momentarily stunned. “You’re the one who brought me into this.”

“Yeah, I did. But I didn’t expect you to be obstructive.” His scowl brought on a second shiver. He pivoted to stare over at the door where Peggy had stood. It was closed now, outline barely visible in the intricate paneling. My student was nowhere in sight. “Shit!” he said, and strode over to Rachel Thompson. I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but I didn’t need to. She immediately glanced over at the sequestered door, then they took off together in the direction of the main staircase.

I stood alone and stared after Dennis. Nobody gets away with talking to me like that! No way was I going to cooperate any further with that son-of-a-bitch. He could go back to Lowell and choke to death on Merrimack River fish bones for all I cared.

And, where
did
that door lead, anyhow? Had Peggy gone through it? If so, Rachel and Dennis would surely find her. I sighed; I couldn’t mother all my students all the time. Peggy would be fine, and her comings and goings were none of my business anyhow.

The room was stuffy. A few English Department colleagues huddled by the bar. In pursuit of a fresh drink I joined them and stumbled into the middle of a wrangle over the value and purpose of crime fiction. Ned Hilton insisted that Kit Danger’s significance lay in the manner in which the character destabilized the subtexts of performative femininity.

Miles Jewell’s irate tones cut through Ned’s tentative assertion. “Blatant social constructivism, Hilton. Where’s the
literary
value? That’s what I want to know.”

Ned squared his slender shoulders. “Literary aesthetics do not account for the recuperation of heterogeneity from hegemony. What more valuable function can you assign to a text than the inscription of personal agency within repressive social circumstances?”

Miles didn’t seem to know the answer to Ned’s question. Neither did I.

It was stifling in the crowded foyer. I gave up the wait for a drink, and pushed my way through the crowd to the front door for a breath of air. The big door had an iron frame, inset with thick glass, criss-crossed with hammered grids, and embossed with brass lions. It weighed a zillion tons; not a door that was ever meant to be opened by a woman. I opened it anyhow. Outside, two smokers puffed silently in snow that thickened with the gathering night. Claudia Nestor found me on the threshold. She was wearing black silk, and the eye tic was on automatic pilot.